


Le Phare

by toofastandtoofurious



Series: Le Phare Coffee Shop [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Needs Therapy, Canon-Typical Violence, Coffee Shops, Empathic Bond, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nonbinary Booker, Platonic Cuddling, Queerplatonic Relationships, Temporary Character Death, everyone gets better I promise, healing through the power of coffee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25842580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toofastandtoofurious/pseuds/toofastandtoofurious
Summary: WWII is what makes them stop in their tracks. The First World War changed the way wars were fought and it was disorienting, chilling, horrifying even to Andy who thought she’d seen it all. They foolishly hoped humanity would learn from its own mistakes and stop after that much destruction, only to go back to trenches and half-ruined buildings as an excuse of a safehouse. Fuck this war.ORAndy, Joe, Nicky, and Booker accidentally buy a coffee shop and heal with the power of coffee somewhere along the way
Relationships: Andy | Andromache & Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Le Phare Coffee Shop [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875214
Comments: 43
Kudos: 132





	1. Don't Let Me Drag You To The Ocean Floor

WWII is what makes them stop in their tracks. The First World War changed the way wars were fought and it was disorienting, chilling, horrifying even to Andy who thought she’d seen it all. They foolishly hoped humanity would learn from its own mistakes and stop after that much destruction, only to go back to trenches and half-ruined buildings as an excuse of a safehouse. They fight as they usually do, jump from country to country, die day after day, and come back to bombed cities, concentration camps or tiny houses in the middle of nowhere. Booker dies again in the Siberian woods, and he looks so haunted and broken that Andy has to bite the inside of her cheek not to howl for her brother who was killed by her own land – or what is the closest to one. He comes back, of course he does, but the shadows under his eyes are deeper than ever. They know he dreams of Quynh but don’t push. Instead he tells them about his first death, or rather deaths, over and over, playing dead and then being dead, and then playing again for three agonizingly long days, about that damn raven, how it tasted better than rats, and how it definitely didn’t matter. They hold him tightly and promise to each other while he sleeps to make sure to never let him read Poe again. Andy, Nicky, and Joe sandwich shaking Booker in between them each night as they go to sleep, hoping this day of war will be the last.

The victory, when it finally, finally comes, feels hollow. They hear the cheers of people, the cries of women who will see their beloved soon, and Andy doesn’t know what is worse: the knowledge that they won’t recognize the faces they’ve loved the most or that some will be greeted with caskets. Some, she notes grimly, will only get a paper note and their grief to bury. Fuck this war.

Maybe it’s right to celebrate but Andy stands still in front of the window in Leningrad, not unlike one of the statues Rodin made of her, and can’t bring herself to exhale. Can’t bring herself to be happy this is over. She knows oh too well that the war will continue, albeit silently, – in families, in grocery stores when the food will finally arrive, on the map, and she doesn’t trust the humanity not to do it again.

“Nicky, you’d think they’d get tired of this crap but it’s the same shit over and over again, somehow worse. The Old Guard… - she bitterly laughs, looking at Nicky who didn’t even try to sneak up on her, and the sound feels foreign on her tongue, her mouth doesn’t stretch right. - “We’re guarding nothing of worth, Nicky. Nothing at all.”

She expects him to say that no, they’ve been doing good, that no, their efforts matter. It’s always been Nicky who believed in doing good, who believed in their cause, who believed in _her_ , and Joe, always Joe, and Booker’s ability to learn new technology before it gets hopelessly, dangerously outdated. He believes and never staggers, never stumbles in his faith, and yet as his forehead touches hers and his hand finds the back of her neck, he doesn’t smile. He shakes.

“Yeah, fuck… - he inhales as if his lungs don’t hold any oxygen anymore, - boss, this one has done a number on all of us. We’ve been at war for God knows how long, no one can go that long and remember they’re people, not weapons. We’re people, Andy, and people...people can’t take that much suffering and still see themselves as a helping hand. My hands are nothing but a sniping rifle, I don’t see anything else anymore, Andy. We all need a break.”

He sounds broken and it’s _wrong, so wrong_ , so she says, “Well, people used to think me a god, how much of a person am I?” and that earns her a half-hearted chuckle. Good enough, at least for now.

“I’ve been thinking, maybe we should take a break. They can manage the fallout without us, we’re not much of a help like this. We can’t go on like this,” - Nicky murmurs in Italian, and she finds herself nodding.

“Where to?”

“Switzerland.”

“Zürich? Or Ticino?”

“No,” - he shakes his head and holds her tighter. - “Geneva. Joe and I think maybe it would be good for Booker to hear his mother tongue again, and it’s big enough, easy to hide.”

Nicky doesn’t mention that neither he nor Andy have a mother tongue they can hear left, that seeing pain on people’s faces from the slightest sound of German leaves their mouths taste like ash, that Booker is always cold, and it’s fucking May. He doesn’t mention _if_ he wanted to be alone with Joe, she looks into his big, stormy eyes and she understands, she suddenly understands what he asks of her.

“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”

***

They slip away without looking back. Andy doesn’t ask how Booker gets them on a plane and what kind of cargo they pretend to be. It doesn’t matter as long as they touch down in Geneva, in the strange liminal space between night and morning. They stumble through the city and rent a room in a tiny hotel, push the two double beds together, and get under the covers as one pile of limbs, Joe still holding Nicky like he’s the most important thing in the world, Booker still between him and Andy, trying to warm his feet by sticking them in between Nicky’s ankles. It doesn’t look comfortable and maybe it isn’t, but Nicky doesn’t complain, one hand still on the gun, another holding Booker. Andy wraps herself around Book’s broad back and he’s so painfully young, so fragile in a way she hasn’t seen him allow himself to be in a long time, that she doesn’t stop herself from kissing the nape of his neck. Sleep comes easier to her after that.

***

Closer to the afternoon they untangle themselves from each other, sleepy but rested better than they have been for the past decade, pay for the night, and head out to the city. If they are going to stay here, they need something more permanent than a hotel room, something better guarded and potentially with more privacy while allowing them to keep an eye on each other. During the war, privacy felt more like a cruel joke.

Geneva is annoyingly untouched, the cobbled streets didn’t know the horror of bombing and blood didn’t have to be washed out with fire hoses. It’s so full of life and Andy doesn’t know if to be grateful or angry, but she’s too tired for anger, so gratitude it is.

They swim in the sound of Swiss French, and it’s different from Booker’s beloved Paris, but the colour comes back to his face, and Andy swears she sees the corner of his mouth twitch as they walk into a Cafe to get some breakfast that doesn’t taste like rations. Nicky insists on drinking espresso because “Andy, this is how coffee was supposed to be drunk” while Booker drowns himself in a huge ass mug of Schale, offering a counterpoint that “the more caffeine you get, Nicky, the better you function”. Joe drinks his Kaffe-crème and mentions that it could be better. “I think they’ve over-roasted their beans. Europeans love that shit, never know when to stop”, and Andy laughs at that. She’s drunk enough Arabic or Turkish, or Vietnamese coffee to know that Joe is right, but she isn’t gonna deprive herself of enjoying the pointless argument between Joe, Nicky, and Booker about what kind of roast/method/consistency is the right one. It’s useless and harmful, and she _relishes_ in it.

The waitress comes to them with a smile that makes them tense up, and they’re getting ready to hastily leave, but she stops them with a wave of her delicate hand. “I’m so sorry, gentlemen, I’ve overheard your conversation, and...I don’t want to sound impolite, but it seems like you know what you’re talking about when it comes to coffee.” - Andy huffs into her cup of her Luzerner Kafi. They’ve had time to learn, after all. - “So, there’s a building not too far away from here, maybe 5 minutes on the tram, there’s a coffee house that is going to close. It’s probably the oldest in the city, but the owner says he feels...uninspired. Maybe you would talk some sense into him? He owns the building, it’s not like he needs the revenue that much.” She speaks quietly but passionately, and Andy feels herself smiling against her own will. Damn it, Geneva, making her fall in love with it again. Nicky solemnly nods, asks for the address, and the deal feels settled. Andy puts on her leather jacket and drops a heavy handful of coins onto the tipping dish with slightly more force than necessary.

They go to a park that seems idyllic, with fucking ducks and everything, and Andy doesn’t know why she should care about that coffee house, doesn’t know why it’s a good idea, she wanted to lie low and not be noticed. Isn’t that what Nicky said? They need a break, not to live as if immortality isn’t a thing, as if they can live like this, like normal people. Joe looks at her as she throws bread crumbs to pigeons.

“I see you’re not a fan of this idea, huh?” - Andy shakes her head and is ready to explain but Joe stops her before she can get a word out.

“Listen, it’s a quiet place, and the building has a few flats. We can be close but not in each other’s faces all the time, you know, and we won’t have to pay anything, just for the maintenance, no rent.”

She takes a second to think through what her friend tells her and she loves Joe, she truly does, but this is ridiculous.

“So you’re proposing to run the shop and buy the whole fucking building? Joe, this is crazy. We...we might find a safehouse, we might disappear, Booker can forge all the documents. We might take a fucking breather and not invest in a questionable business in the second-biggest city in Switzerland.”

“Boss, look, we’ve been doing this for years. Fuck, for centuries! Andy, aren’t you _fucking tired_? When was the last time you did something other that wield your labrys?” - he swallows hard enough that Andy feels a lump in his throat and she can’t bring herself to argue. He quietly says, “When have we fucking _lived_ , Andy? Nicky always wakes up with the gun, you know, even when we’re alone. It’s been 900 years and he still does it, and it’s fine, but this shit? This decade of...sheer fucking carnage? He’s become a gun, and I don’t want it for him. I don’t want it for you. I want just a little bit of time to do something else, not to grip the gun first thing in the morning. We need a damn fucking hobby or to see people do anything but killing, or to waste our time and money teaching these people how great coffee actually tastes like.”

He smiles at her and she knows a peace offering when she sees one, though his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. She also can’t argue with that. She’s been doing a shitty job of living since Quynh, since everything, since she lost all hope of finding her again. Maybe Joe is right, and maybe she’ll regret it, but there’s only one way to find out.

“Yeah, fuck it. Let’s go.” - Joe laughs and she feels like she said the right thing for the first time in centuries.

They take the tram, and the building in question is a small 4-story old house in a quiet part of the city, it might need repairs here and there but nothing money can’t fix. Booker is awfully quiet that whole time. It rarely means anything good, but then, as they’re almost at the door, he says: “I can bake a bit, but I think I’ve seen a flier for baking and confectionery classes, maybe that would be of use”, and Joe all but cheers, making Booker bark a laugh, too.

They buy the damn building with the coffee house, with a few flats above the cafe, with something that looks awfully like an art studio that makes Joe gasp, all of it. Andy knows it’s not what laying low is, not how they’ve been doing it for centuries, but they already plan out the repairs, already think of equipment to buy and classes to take, they check out the kitchen, decide on which flats to call dibs as if it even matters, and maybe...maybe she doesn’t mind. Maybe it’ll be good to do something with her hands that doesn’t make them smell of gunpowder for a while.


	2. Your Knuckles Bloody, Soul Untamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They get some people, they visit and they tip, and then they come back, over and over, day after day. Then their regulars bring their friends, they laugh and they talk, and Joe feels connected to this weird little world his family has been protecting like he’s never been before. It shines in new light, he feels like he is tangible and real, and belongs. He can’t get enough."  
> OR  
> Sometimes you need a change of plans to find your true vocation

The thing is, Le Phare, named after one too many bottles of wine, was supposed to be a short stint, maybe for 5 years, maybe for 10, before they’ve moved on to do their work in the world, to do good, but the place had other plans. These walls have always had a mind of their own, Joe muses, and maybe Destiny, something in which Nicky believes so strongly, has found its way to steer them from the original path onto the one that fit them better. It’s been a couple of decades, and the small coffee shop tucked away into the corner of a Genevan street, still stands, and Joe still has to start work the earliest on Mondays.

He thinks it started somewhere in late 1940s, but he can’t really be sure or be bothered to be accurate, not that anyone would begrudge him for that. They repair the cafe and call her Le Phare, The Lighthouse. Joe insists on calling it her, like a ship. Booker says that maybe they should’ve called her such, but Andy inhales too harshly at that, and the argument is over.

Booker...Booker breathes a bit easier, almost always covered in flour up to his elbows, and the pastries he comes up with keep getting better and better. He takes classes for which he sometimes travels abroad, but he always comes back looking rested. There’s a spring to his step Joe has never seen before, and his eyes are clearer than ever. If he looks into his eyes long enough, he can still see grief and sorrow that used to swallow Booker whole, but light and warmth overpower it now. Joe can’t be happier for him and hopes, prays every day, that one day Booker’s darkness will release him from its shackles for good. The day may never come, he knows, but there is hope.

They cash out on more modern coffee machines but keep the proper equipment to make Arabic, Turkish, Vietnamese coffee, all the small pots, some of which are older than the building itself. Some, to Joe’s dismay, are deemed poisonous and have to be gotten rid of. He refuses to throw them out and proudly displays them as decorations on the shelves near the register. He learns new ways to make old drinks, new ways to make new drinks, and then insists, fight for the right to have their own little roastery. “Nicky, Nicky, you can’t in good conscience argue with me that this roast is horrible. It’s a travesty! It’s a true crime against my soul!”. Nicky pleadingly looks at amused Andy and Booker, and this is how Joe knows he’s won. He gets his fucking roastery. These uneducated Europeans can choke, he’ll get them all out of business before they know it.

They get some people, they visit and they tip, and then they come back, over and over, day after day. Then their regulars bring their friends, they laugh and they talk, and Joe feels connected to this weird little world his family has been protecting like he’s never been before. It shines in new light, he feels like he is tangible and real, and belongs. He can’t get enough.

***

The door opens and Joe hears its welcoming chime, perks up and sees a girl he’s definitely seen before, many, many times. She’s young, not older than 20, and today her red hair is carefully braided into a milkmaid braid, she’s wearing cigarette trousers and a dark navy blouse. Most people prefer to wait for him to hand out the menus as they sit at their tables, but not her. Joe knows she looks quiet and measured, he knows she drinks espresso here first thing in the morning, she carries herself as if it is her who wills the ground to be stable, but the bags under her eyes worry him. He looks at her now, as she comes closer to the counter to greet him, and her face breaks into a wolfish grin. She’s long abandoned the pretense of looking “like a proper young lady” in front of them, something that’s earned her Booker’s undying affection and the right to test all of his new creations. She never says no but doesn’t hold back both on praise and curses.

“Morning, Joe. So, how are you, you old man? They’re promisin’ the rain, do your old bones creak yet?”

“Not yet, my dearest Anne, I’m not that old, you know. Maybe in a decade or two, though, I’ll be a horrible old man complaining about the weather. Espresso?,” - asks Joe as the machine turns on with a grumbling sound. She nods and her eyes crinkle with mischief as she looks somewhere past him. He hears Booker’s heavy footsteps and the air immediately gets filled with cinnamon and freshly baked apple pies. Ah. Here it goes.

“Anne!” - Booker’s apron is a heavily covered in flour disaster, and his shirt looks irredeemable, but his face lights up like it’s Christmas as the tray with various baked goods appears on the counter. - “Morning, morning! _Mon amie_ , I’ve been trying this new recipe for _pain au chocolat_ , but it might need some work. Would you be open to trying one for me? See, if it’s shit, Joe will fire me and I’ll have to go back to France.” - his mournful expression doesn’t sway Anne, who claps him on the shoulder in fake sympathy.

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen, Sébastien. Our friend Joe here is an old man with a soft heart. He’ll be complaining about the weather sooner than about your baking, but sure, I’ll take the honors.”

Joe gets busy with her espresso but he never takes his eyes off her as Anne bites into the _pain au chocolat_ and outright _moans_. They’re lucky she’s always the first to walk in and there are no visitors yet, that would be public indecency. She chews with concentration, eyes closed, a dreamy expression on her face that makes her look younger, that softens her edges somehow. She licks her fingers when she’s finished, ignoring the napkin that Booker helpfully gives her. Joe wishes Andy was here for this, but Booker’s warm shoulder near his is enough to keep him grounded in the moment.

“Fuck, Sébastien, what have you done? Damn, my man, this is the best pain _au chocolat_ I’ve ever tried, you bastard. Mmm, damn, what was that?”

Booker beams and his sly smile is reflected by Anne’s. “Well, I guess I _could_ tell you, but where’s the fun in that? I will pack you a couple to go, though,” - he says as Joe serves her espresso, and Anne’s booming laugh fills every empty space in the cafe.

***

It’s a Monday, and Mondays drag like molasses. Joe has to keep track of the days now, and Mondays always make him wish he was upstairs, in his and Nicky’s tiny flat, lounging around until they absolutely have to check up on Booker’s work and open the doors. Andy is off to a place none of them truly know, but she promised to be back in three days, so three days of working behind the register and waiting for her to return it is. Joe doesn’t hate it, truly, he doesn’t, he has more than enough time to work on his sketches and let more elaborate ideas find their way onto the canvas later. Maybe when Andy’s back, he’ll lock himself up in the studio for a day or two with some paint and bigger canvases, that should be interesting.

His plans for sketches are interrupted as Anne walks in, nods to Joe and beelines to her table. She looks like she either has the worst headache of her life or nurses the most brutal hangover a young lady of her age can have. Joe preheats the coffee machine and slides into the kitchen to find Booker setting timers for a new batch of pastries and cakes. He opens his mouth but Booker beats him to it.

“She came back from her little Paris trip, huh?” - So a hangover then. Joe sighs and nods. - “I think I have a thing for that.”

Booker rushes a confused Joe out of the kitchen to make the coffee and appears near him as Joe sets the espresso in front of Anne, trying to do it as quietly as possible so her headache won’t get worse.

“Anne, I take it your Paris trip went well?” - Booker is smug but his voice is soft, and Joe marvels at that connection the two seem to have. Joe likes her, he does, but every time he looks at her fiery-red hair and sharp smile, he’s reminded of another time and another woman, not less of a fighter and constantly smelling of sea salt. He thinks it’s holding him back, while Booker sees Anne for who she is. Currently she looks at him from under the brim of her floppy hat like she’s considering to punch him, bruised knuckles clenching, but the corner of her mouth betrays her when she sees a croissant with some berry jam in a tiny tray gently placed in front of her.

“Yeah, went to all the places you’d recommended. Those fucking museums, I swear half of the men on those paintings are Nicky, I feel like I’ve seen too much. Too many dicks.” - Joe nearly chokes at that. She sips her coffee, holding a tiny cup with her slightly shaking hands, and groans.

“Joe, you’ve ruined me for coffee everywhere else, Parisian coffee is fucking garbage. Garbage, I’m telling you. They’re so pretentious about it, too. Sorry, Sébastien, but it’s true.” Booker doesn’t protest, just smirks and quietly drags a chair closer to her.

“Can’t say I can argue with that, that would be hypocritical of me. What’s with your hands?”

Anne looks at her knuckles and groans. She tsks and huffs in annoyance. Joe feels they have a hell of a story coming and prays Booker will hear the timers from this corner.

“Got into a bar fight.” - Booker whistles and Joe gleefully clicks his fingers as if it’s a poetry reading and a line hit him particularly hard. Anne winces and Booker apologetically squeezes her shoulder. - “That guy, Charlie or whatever his name, huge, looked like he didn’t have two rocks to bang together in his head, really didn’t understand the word “no”. So I had to make him understand in his language. He bought me a pint later, we’re good, but oh man...it might have been more than one pint.”

“That’s a good introduction to Paris if you ask me,” - Booker laughs as he gets up and leaves them to check on the pastries. Anne smiles and winks at Joe, colour seeming to have returned to her cheeks. She conspiratorially leans towards him and he mirrors her, resting his elbows on the table.

“So, old man, tell me what I’ve missed while I was away.”

***

Andy isn’t back by Thursday, and Joe should probably worry, should probably start looking for her, but somehow he knows she’s safe. He felt as if she died when he was sleeping the other night but his breathing evened out quickly, so he dismisses his worry and gets even more certain that she will come back soon enough. Andy has never been able to leave war or Quynh behind, and she left to find either one or another. Joe can’t blame her, she seems to have been born a warrior, not knowing anything else, but at least now she has a place to come back to. He drifts in his thoughts of Andy, but the sound of short nails tapping on wood bring him back to the present. He opens his eyes and sees Anne, her red hair cascading down her shoulders, and something’s off. Something’s truly, truly off.

“Hey, Joe, uh… - her eyes plead him not to ask questions, she clasps her hands so tightly her knuckles go white. - I don’t have any cash today, but can I just sit here for a while? I promise I won’t take up too much space, and I have to go soon anyway, and… - Joe gets a feeling she would go on and blabber more apologies that would pain them both, so he stops her with a wave of his hand.

“Anne, you’re always welcome here, and, since you’re the first, your table is free. How about I make you an espresso, with a pastry? Sébastien was trying out this new recipe yesterday, I think he would love for you to be the first to judge his skills." - he hears Booker’s muffled confirmation from the kitchen, which means he’s too covered in egg or flour, or something he truly doesn’t want anywhere near the register, and Anne offers him a small smile. - "Obviously, on the house. After all, it would be awkward if you got poisoned by something you’d bought.” - she smirks at that, and oh how painfully does she remind Joe of someone who saved their asses at sea way too many times back in 1718.

Anne leaves him to absentmindedly make her coffee, and the voice in his head, awfully sounding like one of their fallen mortal friends, doesn’t leave him the entire time.

***

“Damn it, Joe, this is good,” - she almost snarls, biting into her pastry. Joe sits with her with a cup of his own during a rare moment of quiet and he can swear he hears Booker’s whooping in the kitchen. Joe doesn’t know what Book is making, but he knows he’ll stuff a brown lunch bag with it for Anne to take home.

“Well, Anne, we do offer nothing but the best,” - he says half-jokingly, and Anne raises her eyebrow.

“Seems to be this way.”

They are quiet. They sip coffee and allow each other to exist, at some point Nicky comes to the register and waves at them. Joe winks and Anne looks at Nicky, tilting her head to the side as a greeting. They look at each other for a moment, and Anne’s face is unreadable. She signs and sags under the weight that Joe can feel rests heavily on her shoulders.

“I need to leave the city, Joe. Soon, some time this week, don’t ask me why. Quit my job, never bothered to make many friends, so disappearing should be easy. Money’s tight but I’ll make it work.” - Anne is straight to the point as always, never beating around the bush, and she looks him in the eyes for the first time since she came into the cafe today. Joe feels like she’s telling him something else, something he should get instinctively, and he thinks he does. Maybe it’s a perk of being an artist, seeing these things. He takes another sip of his coffee as silence rings in his ears. Anne spins the rings on her fingers and it’s so familiar that Joe has to remind himself that this time, this Anne can run away to whatever destination she has in mind, from whatever it is that set her running. He keeps track of time now, and things are different. He gets an idea.

“If you need to disappear from any records, Sébastien can help you with that. Believe me when I say the man is good at what he does, you can count on him, but don’t praise him too much, it’s bad for his ego, you know. Do you need a place to stay?” - Anne’s brows are knit in one tight line, she grips the edge of the table so strongly that her nails threaten to leave marks on the lacquered wood, and her eyes look glassy and bloodshot. She nods. “Okay. Nicky will give you a key, it’s from one of the apartments above. Tiny, I know, like a ship’s cabin, but clean and unoccupied. You don’t have to tell us anything, just finish your coffee and pastry in your own pace, wrap up whatever you need to do, and come here in the evening, you’ll have a place to stay for as long as you need,” - Joe’s voice is soft but steady, sure. He places his hand on top of hers, and their rings clink together. She exhales, almost on count, as minutes pass by, and when she speaks, her voice is rough and scratchy.

“Fuck...Thank you, Joe, it means more than you think. I don’t have much money, but…” - Joe shakes his head, laces his fingers through Anne’s, and lightly squeezes her hand. She squeezes his in return.

“You don’t owe us anything. That’s the least we can do, and honestly, what’s the point of owning empty flats when they don’t do any good? Come on, Anne, you know me better than that.” - she grins at that, teeth and danger, and so much youth and life that he can choke on it. - “Where are you thinking of going?”

She worries her bottom lip with her teeth and her crimson lipstick slightly stains them. Joe registers movement in his peripheral vision and decides to ignore it. “Naples, I think.”

“Naples is good this time of year, I think you’ll like it,” - offers Nicky, appearing near them. Anne tells him about her plan and Nicky puts a small key into her right hand with a look that allows no protest or argument. Joe knows and loves that look. - “We’ll be waiting for you in the evening. Joe, it’s gonna be lunch soon, you’d better go to the register. Anne, how about I braid your hair? Would you like that?”. Joe sees why Anne and him has gotten along so well: always to the point, their whole selves in their actions, not poetry Joe loves and cherishes. It fits them, he thinks. Anne nods, and Nicky sets to work, quietly telling her something that no one else, not even Joe, is supposed to hear.

***

Later, when Booker talks Anne through the process of becoming a ghost and she settles into her room for the night, Joe looks out of the window and allows himself to lean on Nicky’s broad chest, to find comfort in his embrace. This decade is different, they have to be careful, but in the comfort of their home Joe finds that he doesn’t mind it that much. Nicky’s hands rest on his stomach easily, like they always have in the centuries they’ve known each other, and it’s easy to just be, breathe the same air, and float in the memories he knows they share. Yet, a thought can’t seen to leave Joe’s mind.

“Habibi, do you think I’ve done the right thing? With Anne? I haven’t even tried to change her mind, I’ve just...”

Nicky’s answer is as immediate and sure as his blade.

“Yes. I don’t know what haunts her and what pushes her forward but I can see that she needs to be where she’s going. You’re not asking just about her, though, are you?” - Nicky’s always seen through his bullshit, and this time is no exception. - “I think we can do some good here. Yusuf, my love, you’ve seen what kind of people seem to come here over and over again. People like you and me, people as lost as Booker used to be, people who need help to run away, to disappear, to find something, to connect. Anne came here for help, even if she didn’t count on it, because she felt... found here, she felt like she belonged. If our purpose on this Earth is to do good and change something for the better for as long as we are allowed, if this is our Destiny, then I’d say you did the only thing that we are truly equipped to do.”

Joe’s head falls on Nicky’s shoulder and he feels Nicky’s smile on his temple. The tension leaves him, he breathes easier, and Joe feels both weightless and anchored.

“I guess...I guess good doesn’t have to come from the barrel of a gun, it’s a shame I’ve forgotten it was even an option. We’ve done it before, haven’t we? Quiet life, helping others, having something to do that nurtures. It’s good to be reminded that maybe we can do good in small ways, small, sure, but constant. Maybe it can be significant, meaningful. Exponential.”

Nicky tightens his embrace and speaks so quietly that Joe knows it is only for him, Arabic easily soothing his worry: “ _And that, my love, would be the greatest honor to spend my life with you in quiet servitude and find so much joy in it._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Anne, I'm so sad to see you go. Can you guess whom she reminds them of? There are a couple of easter eggs here for the fans of The Golden Age of Piracy. Hope you've enjoyed the second chapter! As always, please talk all things TOG and coffee with me here in the comments and on tumblr, my username is the same!

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, my first work in the fandom! I'm planning 5 chapters for this story, but I might expand it further, who knows! If you have any ideas for this bunch or want to discuss coffee with me, I'm on tumblr under the same name!


End file.
